Too Bad
by Co-Quill-Eon
Summary: Damon is too drunk. Its late, and he's drunk, and it all comes down to him wanting too much or just enough.


Soft breath and soap scented skin. Parted lips and smooth flesh. Elena sleeps and Damon watches – something he hasn't done in a while. At least, not without her knowing. It's 3 a.m. and he's drunk, and all he wants to do is sink into her. Take of his four hundred dollar shirt, jeans from the Gap, shoes from Armani, and just lie down next to her under the covers. Have her warmth seep into him and push out all the bad.

Because he _is_ bad. Bad like the Originals whose mother wants nothing more than to kill them all. Bad, bad boy like his own mother used to say when she would catch him with his little hand in the cookie jar. He takes one last sip of beer, and bends down to set the brown glass down carefully. A quick teeter, totter, fingertips against the rug to catch himself and everything is okay. Her fingers catch his eye, curled into a lose fist, relaxed. He wants that hand on his face, smoothing down his cheek. It's as if his knees have a mind of their own and they bend, bringing him to a kneel right next to the bed - the contrast of the warm rug on his shins and cool wood at his caps sends a little jolt through his nervous system.

Drunk. Too, too drunk, like Stefan used to say when he would run into Damon at a bar. It was the first thing he would always say – they wouldn't have seen each other for years, _decades_, but there was his brother's smooth voice in his ear saying he was a lush. And Lexi would be there - always there by his side while the stool, the car seat, the couch, the other side of the bed next to Damon was either empty or bloodstained.

Too much – he feels too much. He knows that. Just like now, as he takes her hand gently and presses the palm to his face he feels _full._Too, too full, heart spilling over into his guts, filling those up with God knows what. He'd think his heart would break if there weren't so many cracks already.

No one loves him.

Not now.

His mother used to – she was _beautiful_. Light as clouds, sweet as honeysuckle air. Long black hair, sparkling green eyes, pale smooth skin. She was happy, and vibrant, and _alive._Until one day she... wasn't. And then she was gone, and buried, and he went to war.

He'd go to war for Elena. Is, right now. It's war in Mystic Falls, everyone knows that. He'll go to war, live, and eat, and sleep in the battle field. Probably even die there. But it's worth it. Even if she doesn't love him – not the way he needs her too. That first and only kiss was too sweet, too tempting to let go.

He shifts on his knees, and he's_too. drunk_. That's why his leg catches the bottle and it falls with a dull _thunk_ onto the red, navy, gold weave of the rug. It's enough – she's more alert now, her sense sharpened. They have to be with the life she lives. He feels her hand contract against his face where he holds it gently. With a start, she pulls it away and he lets her. But he stays kneeling and watches as she gathers herself, looks around squinting into the dark.

"Damon?" He doesn't answer, just watches as she sits up on her elbows, long hair a curtain in the moonlight. "Damon, what's wrong."

No one loves him – that's what it comes down, _that's_ the problem if he's honest with himself. And for once, when he's drunk, he can admit it.

It's pathetic and he's too tired.

Elena sits up, almost too skinny limbs clumsy with sleep, but then her stomach is in his eye line, legs on either side of him. "Damon…" Hands on his shoulders, face, fingers smoothing down the hairs on the base of his neck. "Damon, what's wrong?" And her voice is so compassionate. It _cares_. It stings, and he looks down at her bare thighs. Her thumbs rub at his cheeks. His foot hits the bottle. Nothing moves outside.

He's too, too drunk.

"Damon, _please_. You're scaring me. Is there something wrong?"

He looks up at her, sinks into her eyes, nearly black in the dark. He's too, too full.

"Damon…" And it's barely a whisper. That's why. That's why he leans in closer, straightens up. Her voice is a whisper pulling him in. Her breath is fast and quick against his lips, but her hands are still on his face and he matches the gesture. Tangles his fingers in her hair, rests their foreheads together, thumbs testing the softness of her bottom lip, loves as the edge of teeth graze the pads.

Imaginary or real, he doesn't know. Probably never will. But he feels the palms on his face pull him in closer, ever so lightly.

The sensation of her lips against his own cuts another crack in his chest, one that echoes throughout his whole body. Her chest against his, his knee on the bed, flashes of moonlight silhouetting her hips. The beer and brandy turns every move into a gentle whirlwind. The hands in his hair tugging (pushing?), the soft moans (protests?), the way she twists and writhes against the bed sheets (trying to escape?), it's all a whirlwind and he's too, too lost with nothing left to lose.

She tastes so good on his tongue...

He's too, too bad.

**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for reading and I hope you have enjoyed this! Now, I'm not usually one to ask for reviews (if you want to you can, if not no biggie) but this is kind of a new style for me, and I'd really like your opinions and concrit. Thanks in advance for those who take the time out to write. xoxo**


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